Kavkazskii Plennik
by Izulia
Summary: Chekov is taken prisoner and has to escape, but someone wants to hold him back. This is my take on the Russian literary tradition of the 'Prisoner of the Caucasus' (Pushkin, Lermontov, Tolstoy etc). Finally complete.
1. Chapter 1

A burst of phaser fire screeched past his ear and hit the tree in front of him, shattering the bark into a million tiny fragments in his face. Chekov ducked his head instinctively as he ran past it, the splinters showering into his hair. He ploughed on into the forest as fast as he could. He had no idea how long he had been running – it seemed like hours. His throat was hoarse with panting. Thin wet branches whipped his face as he pushed through. His face was raw with the red welts they had caused. Thorns pulled at his arms as if trying to impede his progress, but he didn't care. He was sprinting as fast as he had ever run before. He knew that he had to get away at all costs. He mustn't be caught. He stumbled over a log, crying out as his ankle twisted and his knee buckled under him. He reached out for a branch to stop himself from falling and he kept on going . His leg held firm. Slipping on the lush slimy grass, he turned his head momentarily, his eyes wide with terror, to try to catch a glimpse of the Tikari, his pursuers. The forest shielded them from his view. They were fully camouflaged and knew their forest home with an intimacy he could never match. He was met with another streak of plasma. He ran on faster, leaping over rocks and the uneven floor of the forest. The bright afternoon sunshine barely penetrated the canopy of thick foliage above him. He had no idea where he was running to. He didn't have a plan at all. He just knew that he had to get away. Fear and adrenaline gave him an endurance he didn't know he had.

His breath came in ragged gasps as the terrain began to steepen. It was a mountainous area and rocks and saplings jutted out of the hillside in increasing density, forcing him to choose a path that he was sure would be obvious to his pursuers. It was rough and narrow and looked like it had been made by animals .He scrambled upwards, his legs burning with the effort of climbing. His fingernails tore into the mud and soft mulch in front of him, grasping for any roots that he could cling to. Eventually the land began to plateau but he had to stop. He was finally exhausted. Amidst a small clearing he found a hollow. He threw himself into it onto his hands and knees. He bowed his head, panting and coughing. He shut his eyes and strained his ears for any sounds of pursuit – the slightest crack of a branch that might indicate that they were there. He held his breath, but the forest retained its primordial silence. He slumped down and leant back against a tree, ignoring the damp ground beneath him seeping into this trousers. He raised his knees and balanced his elbows on them, holding his head in his hands as he tried to calm his breathing. He needed to keep as quiet as possible. He put his head back and wiped the sweat and hair from his eyes with his hot, muddy hand, taking steadier breaths of the cool afternoon air. As he looked around him it occurred to him that in any other situation, this place would be idyllic. It reminded him of the deep forests of home that seemed to stretch on for ever. He looked down at his heaving chest and ripped uniform and realised that the mustard gold of his shirt stood out from the surrounding greens and browns. He hurriedly pulled it over his head and scrambled over to a pile of leaves under a bush and gave it a hasty burial. His black long-sleeved undershirt and black trousers would make him a less obvious target, he hoped. He dug into his pocket for his communicator and flipped it open, pressing it to his chest to try to muffle its usually welcoming chirrup. He turned the small silver knob on its face with his shaking hand trying to lock onto a signal, but he couldn't find anything. Uhura had told them that communications would be difficult. As usual, she had been right. He climbed stiffly to his feet, hoping a little more elevation might help. He coaxed the dial around again. Nothing.

Suddenly he caught a slight rustling in the trees out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head in the direction of the sound and froze. All his senses seemed to slow down everything around him as he analysed every sound, smell and movement. The drip, drip of recent rain marked out the seconds at the periphery of his perception. The faintest sound of a twig snapping behind him made him spin round. He took a great gulp of air, preparing to run again. He saw a shadow move in the bushes. With an explosion of momentum he dropped the communicator and charged forwards and onto the path. He had only gone a few yards when he came up short, skidding into a deep peaty puddle. There in front of him was a Tikari, his darkly tanned face smeared with mud so that only the white of his grinning teeth was visible above his glittering black eyes. Chekov hesitated, assessing if he could barge past and maybe dodge round the man, but he immediately recognised the impossibility. The man saw him make the decision and shook his head patronisingly, whistling through his sharp teeth. Chekov hurled himself back in the direction he had just come. Another Tikari appeared from behind a tree and blocked his way, this one levelling his small phase pistol before him with one eye on the sights. He made a soothing noise to the Russian before calling out to his companion. Chekov looked behind him and back again in rising panic – the other man had been joined by several others. He could hear more approaching through the undergrowth either side of him. He didn't want to give up this easily. He flung himself through the bushes to his right but fell straight into the arms of one of his pursuers. He was surrounded. He cried out in alarm and struggled as the man clamped his strong arms around his waist, lifting him off the ground. Punching and kicking with all his strength he managed to buck himself free. He fell onto the ground with a thud and scrambled away as fast as he could, the sound of Tikari laughter ringing in his ears. He suddenly felt a hand grasp his ankle and pull him back along the ground. He was rotated sharply onto his back. Three other Tikari were immediately upon him, kneeling on his arms and legs, pinning him down to the earth. He looked up into the short muzzle of a pistol, gasping for air, hearing himself pleading ' _nyet, nyet'_ at a distance. Above it was the man he had first seen, still grinning with a hungry triumph. The man saw the fear in his eyes and said something to his companions without taking his eyes off him. Chekov couldn't understand their language but the guffaws and approval with which they responded sent a wave of dread down his spine. One of them kneeling on his arms grasped his chin and turned his head from side to side, sticking a large grubby finger into his mouth to force it open to look at his teeth. He patted him on the cheek before turning and nodding up to the man with the pistol. The last thing Chekov remembered was seeing the pull of the man's finger on the trigger and a blast of blinding energy ripping through his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

"So what have you brought me, Indar?"

The sparking smoke from the evening fire danced upwards into the deep blue evening sky. The three moons of Tikar glowed yellow high above the small mountain village. The Tikari warrior turned over the prone body lying on the earth in front of him with the toe of his roughly sewn leather boot to show the Trader captain the fruit of the day's chase. The prisoner rolled over awkwardly onto his bound arms in front of them, still unconscious. His black shirt and trousers were wet and covered in mud.

"You've excelled yourself this time, I must say," said Golland appreciatively, walking up and down alongside the body, turning his head to get a better look against the shadows cast by the fire. Even with the mud and scratches on his face, the prisoner's thick dark hair and regular features were pleasing.

"He's one of yours," said Indar with a sneer, tapping his boot against the young man's face.

"Mine?"

"A Terran."

"Hmmm… yes. Eastern European by the looks of him. You've brought me a good-looking one for a change." Golland looked accusingly at the Tikari, remembering previous deals he had made with the tribesman.

"And young…" added Indar, showing his rotten teeth in a vicious grin in an attempt to smooth the inevitable up-coming complaints. "You could do with one that can take the punishment you give them on your ship."

"Yes, not like the last one," grumbled Golland, putting his hand up to Indar's chest to push past him to continue his survey. "He was thin, had constant toothache and only lasted a few months. He did nothing but complain till the moment he died – which was due to his own stupidity, I might add. I give you a lot of weapons for these prisoners. Good ones too. Do you know how hard it is to get your hands on Starfleet weaponry – even the old stuff?"

Indar looked out with a bored expression to the surrounding darkening hills beyond the village and opted to sigh loudly by way of a reply. He'd had this argument with Golland a hundred times. The deal was simple: Indar captured prisoners to give to Golland in exchange for weapons he and his fighters could use to combat the government of Tikar. Golland was a successful mercenary in this sector and what he did with them after that and how they were treated was none of his concern. He stared out across the centre of the village to the houses beyond as Golland continued to grumble. He watched a group of children playing a warlike game and sniffed the air for signs of cooking coming from the small wooden houses with their twinkling lights. The aroma of roasting meat wafted on the air. He wanted this deal to be done quickly so he could get on with his evening.

Golland ignored Indar's disdain and squatted down, taking the young man's chin in his large, grubby hand and pulled his head from left to right, looking for signs of injury. He prodded at his arms. "Strong shoulders," he muttered to himself. "Slim… looks fit enough." He looked up at Indar, who turned his thoughts away from his rumbling stomach to nod with a little more enthusiasm than his previous sigh had suggested. "From a starship? Makes a change from the usual locals you give me."

"He was part of a delegation with a Federation Ambassador. We couldn't get the ambassador or the captain, but this one we managed to track down." He nodded back towards the forested mountains. "I can assure you he's in good health. It took us most of the day to catch up with him. We ambushed the delegation as soon as they arrived. They managed to beam back up to their ship but Indush brought this one down before he could join them. He ran off into the forest. It took us most of the day to capture him. He's cunning and as fast as a tallabuck."

"Good… good." Golland stood up and wiped his hands down the front of his jacket, appreciating the comparison with the region's native deer. "That's what I want. I'll give you 700 Klingon rifles for him."

Indar's heavy eyes opened a little from their usual disinterested glare. He leaned forwards. "Did I mishear you, Golland? Did you say 1200 rifles and 500 Starfleet phasers?"

Golland clapped an over-friendly arm around Indar's shoulders, making him shake on the spot. "Look at him," he said, drawing out the words. "He's just a boy. He's not worth that much, no matter how young and pretty he is." His eyes looked at Indar with cunning out of his scarred and time-worn face.

"Your number two will like him," growled Indar, shaking the arm off and stalking away a little. "He'd give a thousand rifles for one like that,"

Golland gave a loud laugh. "Haddad can look, but he can't touch. That's not what I want him on board for. Come on now. Because I'm in a good mood I'll give you 800 rifles and 200 phasers.

"800 rifles, 500 phasers," scowled Indar, clutching his phase rifle to his chest and fingering the trigger.

Golland pursed his lips. He had a potential bargain on his hands with this prisoner. Anyone from a Starship was a good catch and didn't come around very often. They were difficult to break in, but once you had, it was well worth it. Sometimes they needed neurological 'treatment' to make them forget their past lives, but the sector was teaming with illegal surgeons looking to make an easy profit. He knew one who owed him a favour. If you were really lucky, you could ransom them back to the Fleet, but that involved extra risk. It didn't seem likely that the youth at his feet was anyone special, but it was always worth trawling through a captured database to see who was who or if they were related to anyone interesting. He gave Indar another sideways glance. The Tikari had been known to kill his prisoners on the spot if he thought he wasn't going to get the right price for them. Golland didn't want to let this one slip through his grasp. He looked up at the blackening sky. It was late.

"Oh, alright then. 800 rifles and 500 phasers," he said reluctantly. "Call your men and take him to my shuttle."

Indar set off towards the houses, shouting to the children to fetch some men. They scurried inside and a few minutes later several more warriors appeared in front of the houses. Golland watched as Indar spoke to them and organised them to pick up the prisoner. They man-handled the young man by his arms and legs and set off after Golland as he made the short walk to the edge of the village where the shuttle was located. He felt reasonably satisfied. It had been a good trade. A Starfleet crewman was worth much more than a few second-hand, decommissioned weapons. He watched as they laid the boy on the floor in the shuttle and filed out. He held his hand up to Indar in parting.

"I'll drop the weapons off tomorrow," he shouted out of the hatchway. Indar nodded and turned away.

Golland pressed the button to close the door. It shut with a heavy, cell-like clang.


	3. Chapter 3

He could feel a humming in the deck though his skull. There was something familiar about it and yet there was something wrong... something about the frequency of the engines that he didn't recognise. Suddenly he felt the ship shudder and a minute tingle brushed his cheeks. They had been hit by phaser fire. He opened his eyes. He was lying on his side on a cold metallic floor in a small grey room. As his vision cleared, he managed to summon up enough energy to roll onto his back. He looked around him and put his hand up to his head in response to a headache that crashed over him. He recognised the residual effects of a crude stun blast. He sat up slowly and felt a pain in his wrists. He held them up on front of him to inspect them. They were cut from what he supposed were ropes that had bound him. His hands were grazed and his fingernails were broken from his climb up the mountainside. He rotated his shoulders slowly to release the pulled muscles he felt in them. A sharp spasm made him wince. What the hell had happened to him? He put his arm up on a chair welded to the floor next to him and hauled himself unsteadily to his feet. The room spun round him and he sat down heavily on a hard low bed by the wall. He held his head down between his knees in an attempt to clear the nausea and tried hard to remember something of the events after he had been shot. His mind was a blank. Maybe he had only just come round? He looked up at the small square window set in the bare bulkhead. The stars sped by in soft pale yellow streaks. By that shift, they were travelling at high sub-light, he reckoned. The ship dived and swayed. They were either chasing or being chased. The ship trembled again. He had to find out where he was and what ship he was on – although he already had a pretty good idea. He hadn't spent nearly three weeks in Kirk's negotiations with the Tikari tribal leaders not to know that they traded captives for weapons with the sector's local mercenaries. The hired killers needed manpower and hostages – the Tikari rebels on the ground needed firepower. Each had what the other required and the war was going well for both of them. Starfleet had vowed to help the progressive Tikari government but it had become embroiled in a protracted conflict that had turned into a stalemate. The well-equipped mercenaries were starting to tip the balance of power. The Federation Ambassador had thought he had been making progress, but it had all turned out to be a set-up, just as Kirk had suspected. In principle, the Captain's back-up plan had worked and the landing party had beamed out safely – with the exception of himself. As the most junior member of the team he had been the look-out. He had done his job and warned them of the danger as soon as it had manifested itself, but one of the Tikari had tackled him to the ground at the last moment. He had missed the beam-out by a hair's breadth. Then he had started to run. Escape was the only thing on his mind. He had known that he hadn't really stood much of a chance against the Tikari mountain dwellers. Forests and plains had been his training ground. And now here he was, on some ship headed who knew where. He had to escape.

He walked over to the door and pressed the button to exit. As he expected, it was locked. To the left of it was a panel. He prised off the cover and saw that the circuitry inside was simple. After a few minutes of pulling the componentry apart and rearranging the wiring, he was about to put the last regulator in place when the door hissed open. He stepped back hurriedly, dismayed that he should have been caught so soon. Instead of the armed crewman he expected, a young woman stood in the doorway holding a bowl. She was young and even the shapeless black fatigues she was wearing could not completely hide her slim and graceful figure. She looked just as shocked as he was. He watched her intently to see if she would sound the alarm. He would stop her by any means necessary.

"What are you doing?" she asked with a worried expression. She looked from him to the panel and to the cover still in his trembling hands.

Chekov did not reply, holding his breath, ready to make a decision if he would attack her or not. He took in her pale blue eyes and soft bobbed blonde hair. He really didn't want to hurt her. She was beautiful, he thought. She saw her looking at him and blushed, unsuspecting his motivation. She gently pushed past him into the room to put the small bowl down on the table.

"I wouldn't try that if I were you," she said quietly, picking the cover out of his hands and putting it down on the table next to the bowl. She cast a glance over her shoulder through the empty door. "If my father catches you, he'll skin you alive. He's the captain."

She held out a spoon to him, pushing a wisp of hair back over her ear in a nervous gesture. He took it, caught off guard by her naivety. He still refused to answer her. He looked over into the bowl. It was a mixture of watery vegetables and a few scraps of meat – like the worst canteen borshch he had ever seen. Thanks to his still over-loaded nervous system he didn't feel hungry.

She saw him reject the food with a flicker of his eyes. "You must eat," she insisted. "You may not know it yet, but you have to be strong to survive on this ship. You need all the nourishment you can get. If they put you in the engine room you'll be exhausted."

He glared at her by way of a reply.

"Why won't you talk to me?" she asked curiously. "Do you understand me?"

She had seen him being brought on board and she felt sorry for him. His ripped uniform spoke of the pursuit he had endured. He must have been very desperate to escape. She felt sorry for all the prisoners who came aboard. Most of them were simple traders or villagers who had no idea what was going on. But this young man particularly troubled her. As they had carried him out of the shuttle she could see that he was about her age, maybe a little older. Now that he was stood in front of her, his deep brown intelligent eyes looked at her with an intensity that made her feel strange, almost uncomfortable, and she wasn't sure why. It wasn't a feeling she was used to. She wanted him to like her.

"My name's Malla," she said, feeling slightly flustered. "What's yours?"

The prisoner raised his chin slightly and his glare intensified. "Chekov, Pavel Andreevich, Ensign, USS _Enterprise_ , serial number 6565827B," he replied stonily.

His voice was light but his accent was strong. She didn't catch his name. It sounded long and complicated. His hair was matted with mud and sweat and his face was covered in small scratches. She had overheard her father telling the others how the Tikari had struggled to capture him and had chased him for nearly a day on the planet surface. She noticed the raw wounds on his wrists.

"Here," she said, holding out her hand. "Let me have a look. I have some medical training. It's not much, but it's enough that I can look after the infirmary. My mother taught me."

Chekov pulled his hands back against his chest, shaking his head. "Why is there phaser fire?" he asked aggressively. "Tell me where I am."

"I knew you'd be a stubborn one."

The deep voice of Captain Golland startled him. The captain stood in the doorway, flanked by two Tikari crewmen, a disdainful look on his lined, bearded face. "Come away from him, Malla."

Malla bowed her head and did as she was told. She moved to stand behind her father as he entered the room. His temper could flare at any moment and she knew better than to disobey him.

"So by that name and that accent I take it you're a Russian. What was it again? Chekov? Playwright are you?" he sneered. "Sounds like an interesting name."

Chekov took a step back, feeling intimidated by the older man without meaning to. In his black all-in-one fatigues with their silver zips he looked menacing, like a snake waiting to strike. Chekov looked up at him angrily, ignoring the jibe about his family name.

"Send me back to my ship," he said as confidently as he could. "This is a violation of the Tikari treaty with the Federation."

Golland gave him a quizzical look and turned to the two crewmen, dressed similarly in black and clutching primed old-style Starfleet phasers.

"Did you hear that?" he said. "He's only been here a few hours and already he's making demands! That's what Starfleet do!" The men gave an unamused laugh by way of a reply. Golland turned back and jabbed a finger in Chekov's chest. "If there's one thing I don't like, it's Starfleet quoting treaty terms to me and I especially don't like Russians doing it."

He emphasised each word with an extra poke into Chekov's sternum. Something in the man's eyes turned dark. Chekov wondered uneasily what his problem with his people was. Golland turned away and fingered the phaser of one of the guards for a minute.

"What you don't understand, young man," he said eventually, "is that you have been sold to the Assault Ship _Caucasus_. You're my prisoner now and you'll do as I say. You can forget your privileged life back on your starship. You answer to me now. Your life is mine. If I want you to work, you'll work. If I want to sell you on, I'll sell you on. If I want you to die, you'll die. Do you get the picture?"

"I will never work for you," Chekov said determinedly.

Golland spun round and pulled Chekov towards him, smiling patronisingly into the young man's glittering eyes. He admired his courage, but it was forged in Starfleet and for that he despised him."We'll see about that."

His eyes suddenly alighted on the panel cover. He pushed Chekov roughly away from him and picked it up. He turned it over in his hands a few times before turning to look at the jerry-rigged door panel.

"I can see you've started already. You've done me a favour. Now that I know you're technically minded, you can prove very useful to me." He gestured with his head to the two men. "Bring him."

The guards strode into the room and grabbed Chekov by both arms. He tried to resist but they dragged him along, his feet tripping on the uneven metal slabs. The ship was stark and bare – only the minimum of equipment lined the scorched walls and dirty metal corridors. It looked to be in bad repair. Mercenary work obviously didn't bring great rewards, he thought as they pushed him down some steps and onto the deck below and into a small basic bridge. Stumbling through the door he found himself in a room with out of date consoles and exposed wiring. Six people sat at their posts, all of them Tikari. On the viewscreen hung a small Starfleet shuttle craft. A long burn-mark showed where it had been hit by recent phaser fire. Golland gave Chekov a shove in the back to push him further into the room.

"This, my friends," he announced loudly, walking round Chekov like an exhibit. "Is our latest prisoner."

The crew looked back at him in silence as if such prisoners arrived everyday. A plump woman with badly dyed black, greasy hair swung round in her chair.

"Does he have a name?" she asked in a bored voice, chewing on something.

Golland moved to stand in front of her.

"That's about the only thing he'll tell us at the moment. But we'll work on that, Tarella." He turned back round to Chekov, who hung his head sullenly. "Tell us your name again, Russian."

"Chekov, Pavel Andreevich," he replied quietly.

Tarella carried on chewing without a flicker of interest on her tanned face.

"And why have we got him?" asked a small thin man from the far corner of the room. "He doesn't look like the usual riff-raff we pick up."

Golland made an expansive gesture. "He's everything we've been looking for: young, healthy and technically minded. I caught him trying to disable the door lock."

"Two a penny," said the man, turning back to his console. He punched a button on it. "You could have picked him up at any space port and paid half what I bet Indar got out of you."

"Oh?" Golland raised his eyebrows and walked over to stand in front of the console. "And what should I have paid for a Starfleet officer, Parekei?"

Parekei turned to look at Chekov again. "Him? Starfleet?" He screwed up his eyes with renewed curiosity, but then shook his head. "He doesn't look old enough."

"He looks good enough to me," said another, standing up and moving over to him. He was tall and strong with rows of small, button-sized trinkets pinned to his overalls. He ran a large, oily hand across Chekov's shoulders and up his neck before tucking a stray strand of hair behind the Russian's ear. Chekov jerked his head away and raised his arms to stop him, but the guards grabbed at him with lightning speed, pinning his arms by his side.

"Take your hands off me!" Chekov spat at the man, a shiver running down his back at the sensuality of the touch.

The man splayed his hands in mock surprise. "Golland, you didn't tell me he had spirit. I like that." He bent down to Chekov's ear. "You're going to be a challenge," he whispered with stale hot breath.

"Leave him alone, Haddad," growled Golland. He sauntered back over to Chekov. "I've not brought him here for your amusement. Tell us what you do on your starship, Mr Chekov."

"I'm just an ensign. I don't know anything. I do as I'm told."

"Well, that's a good start, though I can't see that Starfleet haven't taught you anything. You see that shuttle out there?" He nodded to the viewscreen. "On it are three of your Starfleet personnel. We've disabled their ship, but we can't break thorough their shields to beam them off. And if we can't beam them off, we'll have to destroy the shuttle." Golland folded his arms. "So tell me how to do it."

Golland's mouth twisted into a cruel smile. He could see the dilemma boring its way into the young man's brain. He was interested to see what the outcome would be. He was sure he must know. Starfleet was soft – this slip of a boy would never be able to take the responsibility for the deaths of three of his fellow officers.

Chekov looked at him tensely. He had to be testing him. He wouldn't put the fate of three people in his hands, surely? He knew immediately how to do it. There were two ways. One needed a captain's clearance but the other way was through the navigation sensors. You could piggy-back your access code onto a false data reading. If you could simulate a reading for something serious and complicated like a gravity well, which he knew how to do, it would be processed at the computer core. From there you could branch out into any system. But he couldn't do it. It couldn't give them an access code. They could use it again and again for any Starfleet vessel they encountered.

Chekov shook his head slowly and closed his eyes. "No." He hoped Golland was bluffing; that the ship was empty or that the crew was already dead.

Golland weighed up the young man's response. Was there more to him than met the eye? How much did he really know? He felt annoyance start to build up.

"Tarella, put me through to the shuttle."

Tarella turned a dial on her console. "Go ahead."

"Federation shuttle, are you still there?"

A brief burst of static from the shuttle's damaged communication system screeched over the intercom. "We're here, what do you want?" came the tinny response.

Golland turned to Chekov and raised his eyebrows. "Do it, or they'll die."

Chekov felt sick. There were people alive on the shuttle. Golland was pushing him to the brink. "I don't know how to," he lied, wide eyed in fear. The desperation in his voice was real.

With an enraged roar, Golland lunged forwards and pulled Chekov away from the guards. He grabbed him by the throat and spun him round, pushing him down onto his back across a console. Chekov's head collided with the panel. His vision blurred and his ears rang to the sound of wailing klaxons. He felt the hot end of a primed phaser being pressed against his temple. He knew the gun was old, but it was still deadly. He froze.

Golland breathed angrily in his ear. "I thought I'd already made myself clear: you do everything I tell you to. The last Russian that refused to listen to me got vaporised along with all his crew. Are you going to make the same mistake?" His hand tightened around Chekov's throat. "Do it."

"I... can't..."

Chekov felt a rushing in his ears. He was starting to black out. Maybe Golland would kill him too then he wouldn't have to live with his choice. Suddenly the pressure released. Chekov slid from the console onto his knees, coughing and taking in agonising hoarse breaths.

Golland looked down at him. "Haddad, take him down to the engine room. Teach him what it means to disobey my orders. Then put him to work on the plasma valves. If he hasn't fixed them by the end of the night, then teach him another lesson." He turned back to the crew with wave of his hand. "Destroy the shuttle."

"No!" Chekov struggled in the arms of the guards as they pulled him up off the floor. "What have they done to you? Don't kill them!"

The intercom was still on. The panicked voices of the shuttle crew sounded across the bridge. Golland turned to him with his hands on his hips.

"Me - kill them? I think you've already done that. Parekei, now please."

A streak of phaser fire tore away from the ship. The shuttle exploded silently into a ball of fire and light. The intercom fell silent as the pieces of the destroyed ship filled the viewscreen before drifting out of range. Golland watched in satisfaction as they dragged the young man out of the room, horror and remorse etched onto his face. Haddad and his men would beat him to within an inch of his life with uncompromising precision. He took a perverse pleasure out of it. Haddad obviously wanted him, so he could have him. Meanwhile he would search his stolen Starfleet database and see who the boy was. Depending on the outcome he would look up the neurosurgeon who owed him a favour or sell him on. Ensign or no, he knew more than he was letting on. He was just surprised at the young man's resolve. He could tell he was going to be a difficult prisoner.


	4. Chapter 4

The weeks dragged by and still there was no sign of rescue. Chekov alternated between hope and bouts of depression. His work in the engine room was dirty and hard. The other crew were Tikari and left him alone. Occasionally they'd take pity on him for being so young and for being alone, helping with the worst of the work he was given. Malla would bring them their food once a day. She always seemed nervous around him. He didn't pay her much attention. His thoughts would always drift back to his girlfriend he had left behind on the _Enterprise_. Yelena Bogdanovna... Lyenochka... a beautiful Ukrainian engineer with her infectious laugh and her inability to pronounce the letter 'g'. She was passionate and oh so sexy. Any such daydreams were always interrupted by Haddad. He appeared with monotonous regularity and dragged him back to his work. If he was lucky, he was merely harried. If the engineer was in a bad mood, he would take him aside with a couple of his henchmen and give him a thorough beating. He hated Haddad's smiling eyes that looked him up and down in speculative lechery. The man took a sadistic delight in making him suffer. He would either return to his dormitory to recover or be dragged off to the infirmary, bruised and bleeding to be patched up by Malla. He would refuse to meet her sorrowful gaze. She would clean the cuts on his face as carefully as she could, wiping his closed eyes and pressing her broken dermal regenerator softly against his bruised arms. He would take off his shirt to let her tend the wounds on his body but he would always look away. She wasn't sure whether he despised her or whether he gave her no thought. He was proud, she realised. He hardly ever spoke to her – only to answer her medical questions with the briefest of replies. She wanted to get to know him and to find out about him, who he was. She wanted to see him smile. He never smiled.

One day Haddad's men dragged him in, almost unconscious and dumped him on the floor of the infirmary, leaving without a backward glance. Malla hurried over, pushing him up by his shoulders. He came to with a groan, tears of pain in his eyes. She helped him to stand, catching him as he swayed violently to one side. He tried to shun her, pushing her away weakly, but he was too exhausted and submitted to leaning on her as she took him over to an exam bed. She put her arms around him as she sat him down, unexpectedly thrilled at being so close to him. She breathed in the smell of sweat and grease.

She gathered herself, trying to concentrate on her medical work. "Why do you anger them so much? They'll kill you," she said softly.

Chekov suffered her ministrations in pain, clutching at his ribs. "I won't let Haddad touch me. I'd rather die."

It was the first time he had given her an opinion.

"Sit up," she said, trying to sound business-like.

She took his chin in her hand and turned him to face her. He gave her a brief, sour look before fixing his eyes on a point on the floor. She examined his face. Several bruises had made his left eye puffy and his long lashes were wet with tears and matted with blood and from a gash above his eye. A large cut bloomed across his top lip. He sat on the exam table, his head held down and his shoulders hunched. He seemed to be in a world of his own. He looked completely dejected. She felt so sorry for him. She took an antiseptic swab and pressed it to his lip. He sucked in his breath at the sting of the liquid and jerked his head away, grabbing at her wrist.

"I'm sorry," she said hurriedly. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

He did not release the pressure on her wrist but continued to stare through her, as if not really aware of her presence. His eyes said he was elsewhere, as if going over some awful event in his mind. He was holding on to her so hard she could feel his arm shaking.

"You're hurting me," she said more insistently.

His eyes moved to suddenly focus on her. He looked down at her hand and let go of it as if shocked to see it there. She saw shame burn across his cheeks as he closed his eyes in silence and turned away.

She put her hand to his chin and turned his face firmly back towards her. "It's ok."

She picked up another swab and went to press it against his upper lip. She hesitated before she touched him. She followed the curve of his cheek bone down to the soft pout to his lips, accentuated by the cut, and realised that she couldn't resist any longer. Impulsively she leaned forwards and kissed him without even thinking of the consequences. She felt him freeze momentarily in surprise. For a second she thought he might pull away, but then she felt his hand on the back of her neck and he returned her kiss, deeply and passionately. Eventually he broke the contact. Malla was vaguely aware of the metallic taste of blood from his lips.

"Not here," she whispered, cupping his face in her hands. "My cabin."

She took his hand and led him out of the infirmary. He followed her as if in a dream. He didn't know what he was doing. He wasn't thinking or reasoning. Half an hour before he had been tied up and beaten and now he was being kissed by a beautiful girl. He was just letting her carry him along. He couldn't make any decisions. They hurried through the bleak and silent corridors until they reached her cabin. They threw themselves into each others arms as the door closed behind them. He pushed her back against the door, hungrily seeking out her soft flesh; her lips, her neck, her shoulders. The rush of passion washed away the pain of his tired body. She unzipped her fatigues to reveal her slim naked body. He kissed her again, almost delirious, caught up in the moment. She led him over to the bed and lay down on it, holding up her hand. He took up her invitation. Why shouldn't he? It was only physical. It wasn't rational. It was a means of escape from his captivity. His moral self chided him even as he lay down next to her. Why was he doing this? He had thought she was beautiful when he first met her, but he hadn't really noticed her since then. The hell of his captivity and thoughts of escape had blinded him to anything but the pain he endured every day. Was he trying to find some connection with Malla? Something that would sweeten his bitter imprisonment? He felt angry with himself for intellectualising the event. Let it just be physical. He pushed all thoughts aside and made love to her, forgetting the _Enterprise_ , forgetting his friends, forgetting Lyenochka, with her blue grey eyes and fine high cheekbones... But at the end his lust was satisfied: nothing else. He felt guilty for it.

For hours afterwards, as Malla lay sleeping, he stood by the window watching the asteroid field turn and broil around the ship. It was like a mighty river, cutting him off from the space beyond. Thick clouds of dust and ice particles swirled like eddies and currents in a never ending ebbing and flowing, glinting in the glow of a distant sun. He had to find out what that sun was if he was to escape. Beyond the field, two nebulae hung like silent guardians. The columns of gas and stars loomed like pillars of fire and ebony and at their edge flowed streams of meteorites. He concentrated on the star formations, committing them to memory, fixing them in his mind. As soon as he could get his hands on a star chart he would be able to locate his position and the last co-ordinates of the _Enterprise_. He had been a prisoner for nearly a month now. Perhaps the crew had given up looking for him? Perhaps they hadn't looked at all and assumed he was dead? He was only an ensign, after all, and no one of any real importance. He suddenly felt very homesick. He closed his eyes against a flood of sentimentality and sadness and leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the window.

" _Kakaya glupost'_ " he muttered to himself.

"What are you thinking?"

Malla had awoken and found he had left the bed. At first she had thought in sorrow that he had left. She watched him stand by the window, silently lost in whatever thoughts had overtaken him, his dark eyes narrowed in concentration, his lips forming words she did not know. She saw him seek out each star and dwell on it. The light of the galaxy reflected in his eyes as if he were connected to it. The cabin was cold but he did not seem to feel it. He stood in just his trousers, his hair tousled, his lean figure almost silhouetted against the window.

Chekov turned his head briefly towards her, his features merging with the shadows of the room. "I'm sorry, did I wake you?" he asked in his soft accent. His question was gentle, something she wasn't used to.

"No." She got up, pulling the light sheet off the bed to wrap herself in it. She wanted to be near him, to find all there was to know about him. She moved to stand beside him, looking out at the stars. "What are you looking at?"

He took a deep breath as if coming up for air. He turned back to the stars and pointed at one of the nebulae. "I am pretty sure that at the centre of that nebula lies a pulsar. If it's the one I'm thinking of, from here I'd estimate it to be, maybe, 30 kilometers in diameter with a spin rate of 30.2 times per second. It is emitting radiation across the spectrum from gamma to radio and its flux will extend to above 10 TeV."

She looked at him. "You know all that?"

"Yes," he said simply. "I am a scientist. Knowing these things helps me to navigate and do my job."

"You're a navigator? I thought you were a soldier. That's what my father said."

Chekov made a quiet noise of disgust. "I am an explorer. We are on a mission, to find new planets and peoples and to learn from them, exchange information, culture..."

Again her father's opinions echoed in her head. "But Starfleet... it's the biggest military organisation in the Federation. Aren't you just flexing your muscles?"

Chekov looked at Malla with a flicker of annoyance. He had heard the same mantra many times before. He stopped himself from snapping back a retort at her. It wasn't fair. She wasn't to know.

"I have made first contact with so many new species. Some want to join us and some want to be left alone. No one is forced. But with every contact comes a risk. Like the Klingons. They only seem to want war. We have nothing to offer each other."

She shook her head. "You must be very clever. I only have the medical skills my mother taught me. I can only just read and write and then only enough to get by on the ship, and as for maths... I only know enough for trading."

"Where is your mother?" he asked.

She gave a tight, tired smile and dropped her head. "She... she was killed a year ago during an attack. We ran into a Federation starship protecting the legal trade routes into Tikar. We got into a battle, trying to smuggle arms. We were hit. Our infirmary was damaged in the cross-fire...My father blamed himself at first but then he blamed the captain of the assault ship. He was a Russian. He tried to negotiate with my father but the stakes were too high. That's why he's been so hard on you. Anything that makes him remember that day sends him over the edge. Ever since then he's been cruel. We used to be traders, but after that he fell into mercenary work. He doesn't care who he uses to fight his battles any more."

Chekov contemplated her for a second. She wasn't stupid. Surely she could see her life for what it was.

"Why don't you leave?" he asked.

She looked at him in surprise, pulling the sheet tighter around her defensively. "Leave? Where would I go? I can't leave, Pavel. I haven't known any life outside of this ship and my father's business. I don't have the skills to exist anywhere else."

He turned to hold her by the shoulders. "Then who's the prisoner, Malla? You or me?"

Malla was taken off guard by his abrupt question. She had never thought about her life before. In all her 21 years she had never considered that she could go anywhere else or do anything else. Suddenly this young man had come out of nowhere and hinted to her that there was a whole galaxy waiting to be explored, full of opportunities and excitement: with more people in it than just the downtrodden, violent mercenaries on the _Caucasus_. Living on the ship was as cut off and enclosed as a mountain village.

"No." She turned away, pulling herself away from him and paced the room. "I'm not a prisoner on this ship." She stopped suddenly and looked at him with bright eyes. "You could stay with me. We could run away, get married, you could teach me all about the galaxy, go anywhere we wanted to."

The hope and naivety in her voice filled him with pain.

"Malla, I..." He sighed and turned back to the window, folding his arms on the frame in front of him and burying his face in them. He shouldn't have done this. It was selfish. He hoped he would not have to say this to another girl again: "I am not the sort of man you can marry."

"Why not?" came back her immediate, hurt reply.

Why? It was a question he rarely had the courage to ask himself, knowing that the obvious answers were too awkward to face and led to an emptiness he didn't want to dwell on. Because he had chosen a career that demanded years of his life, because he was devoted to his job as a navigator and a scientist, because he couldn't imagine anyone, no matter how beautiful, limiting his exploration of the universe to the confines of a family home, because there was so much more to see with his adopted family on the _Enterprise_. As a result, every girlfriend he had ever had had dumped him out of frustration at his addiction to his work. Even Yelena had complained a few days before he left: _you spend ten hours a day on the Bridge, you volunteer for every away-mission. You're never with me. You're a pain in the ass!_ His friends on the Bridge crew clucked round him like they always did, trying to point him in a direction opposite to that which they were all already embarked upon. Scotty had advised him during a drunken drinking session that he should get out of Starfleet, go back to studying, get a job at a research institute, get married, have children, live the family life. When Chekov had replied that he had no intention of ever doing any of that, Scotty became maudlin: _But laddie, I don't want to see you condemn yourself to a life of loneliness like the rest of us._ But he didn't feel lonely, he reasoned. He was still young. He had girlfriends. He had his pick of them. And yet if he ever stopped to look inside himself, he felt like he was moving from one to the next, using work as an excuse to avoid ever getting too close... _that_ close. He could give them his body, but never his soul.

He turned away from the window resolutely. "Malla, I have to leave. Now. Tell me where the shuttle bay is."

She looked back at him, anger starting to mix with the pain of rejection. "No!" After what they had just done, now that he had her emotions in the palm of his hand, he wanted to leave. She felt cold and afraid.

He clenched his jaw. " _Ty prosto ne ponimayesh!_ " he spat back at her in frustration.

"Don't talk in... that _language_ to me!" she shouted.

He knew it wasn't her talking it – it was her father's prejudices, but it was enough to snap him into action. He swept up his clothes from the floor and shouldered his way quickly into the loose grey shirt they had given him. He pushed past Malla without a word and strode out of the room. She stood in confusion. How had this all deteriorated so quickly? Her father was right: he was just an arrogant, haughty Starfleet fly-boy like all the rest of them. He thought he was better than her with all his education and travels. An anger started to burn within her. So he was going to try to escape, was he? She'd put a stop to that. And he'd let slip he was a navigator. Her father hadn't know that. He would now.


	5. Chapter 5

An hour later Malla sat on her bed in her cabin, biting her fingernails. It wasn't something she did very often – only when she was really worried. After Chekov had left her room she had been furious. She had called her father, told him that he was a navigator and that he was headed for the shuttle bay. Golland had sent Haddad immediately. But now her hurt and rage and abated, she felt terrible. She felt she had behaved like a petulant child. She should have let him go. He was a prisoner. What right had she to aid in his captivity? Her mother had always taught her to help others. She had selfishly done the complete opposite. She looked around her small cabin and felt strangely stifled. This was all her world. She was starting to realise that she had raged against a man for being brave enough to do exactly what she should be doing.

Suddenly the door chime sounded, yanking her out of her thoughts. She rushed to answer it and found Parekei on the threshold.

"You're wanted in the infirmary," Parekei said gruffly. He looked like he had been woken from his sleep. He was tired and annoyed. "The Russian's tried to escape."

As he turned on his heels and disappeared Malla dived into the corridor and ran to infirmary. She threw herself through the door to see Haddad standing with Chekov slung across his shoulder. He threw the prone body down onto the exam table in the middle of the room. An umbrella of light fell across Chekov's pale form in the dark room. His hands hung limply over the edges of the table. He wasn't moving. Malla pushed Haddad out of the way, moving over to the cabinet where she kept her diagnostic equipment. She pulled out a scanner from a drawer and ran it over the young man's body. He was alive at least. His breathing was shallow. From the wounds on his body it looked like Haddad and his cronies had beaten him unconscious.

"What have you done to him?" she asked angrily, turning to a cupboard on the wall to pull out the drugs she needed to treat her patient.

Haddad looked at her cynically, his beady black eyes watching her closely. "Since when do you care what happens to anyone on this ship?" he asked aggressively. "Your father told me he was trying to escape through the shuttle bay. He said you had told him." He looked at her with suspicion. "How did you come by that information?"

Malla refused to give herself away. "I saw him creeping around the corridors. I knew he shouldn't have been out of the dormitory." She started to fill a hypospray to distract herself. "I just assumed,"

"And that he's a navigator?" pressed Haddad. "He's from the Fleet's flagship. That's no minor job he's been doing."

The painkiller exited the hypospray into Chekov's neck with a soft hiss. She put it down on the table.

"I overheard him talking to the men."

Haddad moved to stand behind her, picking up the discarded hypospray and toying with it. "Funny. They never mentioned it. When we found him, he was accessing the shuttlebay codes. Where would he have got those from?"

Malla was able to finally answer with an honest anger, snatching the hypospray off him and taking it over to a sterilising bay. "I don't know what you're talking about, she snapped back. She shouldered him out of the way to grab a tray full of swabs. "If you're trying to insinuate..."

"Who said anything about insinuating...?" growled Haddad.

Malla glared at him, infuriated by his sneering tone. She noticed something different about him. "What's happened to your nose?"

Haddad looked momentarily annoyed, putting his hand up to his nose and patting it gingerly. "He's vicious. I think he's broken it. He plays hard to get."

"No more than you deserve," replied Malla sourly. "Anyway, he's Starfleet, he's clever. I'm sure if he wanted to access those codes there wouldn't be much stopping him on this ship."

"Sounds like you admire him," said Haddad, needling her again and watching intently for her reaction.

Malla ignored him. She began to use the wipes to clean up the blood from Chekov's knuckles.

"Well, he won't be troubling us much longer," continued Haddad with a note of triumph. "Based on your tip-off your father finally decided to check the Starfleet database we stole from the USS _Pearl_. Turns out our young prisoner is not just any navigator - he's the chief navigator on the Federation flagship. No wonder he was so keen to keep that quiet. He's had access to every system on his starship and he's had training in every department. His security clearance will be almost top-level. In the right frame of mind, he's going to be endlessly useful to us."

"What do you mean, 'right frame of mind'?" asked Malla, already knowing and dreading the answer.

Haddad smiled. "He's arranged for Dr Krashal to come tomorrow and pay our navigator a house call. What? Don't you like that?"

"Dr Krashal? The Antosian?" Malla asked in horror. "Their surgery doesn't work. It's barbaric! It has all sorts of side effects."

"Of course. But Antosian surgery can change anyone's brain chemistry to whatever the client desires. As long as you are able to deal with any consequences. And we won't be needing him for long. If he goes insane, we just need to get all the information we can out of him and put him through an airlock. But that would be such a shame, wouldn't it?" Haddad placed his hands on Chekov's hip and ran his hand slowly across it and down his thigh. "Krashal can change personality... sexuality..."

Malla grabbed his hand and pushed him aside. The thought of him touching Chekov revolted her.

"Get out!" she snapped.

Haddad laughed. "Your father wants you to assist Dr Krashal with the procedure. I would pay anything just to see your face. You love him, don't you? This Stafleet boy has captured your heart, hasn't he? And your father has agreed that I can have him, as long as he isn't too much to handle after the surgery. What's he like, Malla? Have you already had first go at him?"

Malla was caught off guard. She couldn't reply. Haddad saw her confusion immediately. "I thought so. It's obvious. Wait till I tell your father..."

"No. Please, Haddad." Malla was panic stricken. She pulled at his arm as he turned to leave the room. "Don't do that."

Haddad picked her hand off his arm and patted it patronisingly. "See to your patient, Malla."

He walked out, leaving Malla breathing heavily. What had she done? She turned back to Chekov, tears in her eyes. She bent down to kiss his bruised lips.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

She continued to work, making him as comfortable as possible, repairing his wounds methodically and as well as she could. Antosian surgery was infamous for achieving its results at great cost to the patient. She could never live with herself if she let that happen. She resolved to help him escape.

And she would go with him.


	6. Chapter 6

The space station rose into view on the shuttle viewscreen like a rusty bucket studded with nails. Chekov was used to Federation stations and outposts: their practicality and function was always reflected in their clean lines and minimalist architecture. The structure in front of him however had been thrown together out of convenience and practicality. Aesthetics had obviously been sacrificed to haste, he mused. As they neared, he could discern more details. Docking bays and lights shone out into the dark, picking out ships of every description, clinging to the sides of the station like tiny insects. Chekov did not recognise any of the designs. The station was hidden in a gas cloud in a system he presumed was off-limits to the Federation: a space full of war-lords and bandits, smugglers and mercenaries. He looked bleakly into the viewscreen at the stars and swirling gas clouds beyond the station. Haddad had told him where they were going and he had taken great pleasure in it. The Antosian surgery would deconstruct his mind and build it back up into whatever Golland and his crew wanted. Haddad had made it clear exactly what he had wanted. However, that was not concerning him at the moment. Golland had thought it amusing to make him navigate to the station, to see if he really was capable of what they thought he was. Chekov had feigned reluctance and complied. What Golland had failed to realise was that this was just what he needed – a chance to properly examine all the star charts of the area. The journey gave him more than enough time to commit the details to memory. They weren't too far from a Federation outpost. If he could find some way of escaping from the station, he could be there in a couple of hours at high warp.

He concentrated on the route ahead. He could feel Malla's eyes boring into the back of his head. He had spent the first few days since his attempted escape in a kind of solitary confinement, locked in an empty cabin and brought food and water once a day. The time alone had given him time to think. It had renewed him with a fresh sense of urgency that he had to escape at all costs. He had spent too long hoping for rescue. Now was the time to act. He was eventually released back to working in the engine room. Malla had tried to approach him several times. Each time he had refused to talk to her, much to Haddad's amusement. She had tried to tell him how sorry she was, how she had made a mistake and that she would do anything to make it right again. She could see in the few looks he troubled to give her how much he despised her. Again she felt angry. She kept trying to tell herself that she should forget him and that his fate was sealed. But something about him kept drawing her back. He had a hold over her that she couldn't explain and she couldn't let him go so easily. As she sat behind him on the shuttle she watched him work. He made it look easy. Her father was right in one respect: he would be useful to them. Maybe after the surgery he would be friendlier towards her. Haddad had told her father his suspicions, but she had managed to persuade him otherwise. She knew her father well and, like a true daughter, she was able to manipulate his emotions. She had managed to persuade him that she thought the same way about their prisoner. She voiced her full support for everything that had happened and accused Haddad of lying to gain more control. Her father believed her. She was relieved. If he knew what had really happened he would kill Chekov without a second thought.

The shuttle entered its docking procedures and drifted smoothly into one of the small bays in the middle of the station. Parekei landed them with a soft thump. The air hissed around them as the bay pressurised and Golland moved to the back to open the door. Chekov hardly had time to shut down the navigation console before Haddad pulled him up by the elbow and pushed him roughly towards the hatch. He stumbled out of the door and down the small steps, falling down on one knee in front of a crowd of people of a race Chekov had never seen before. As he looked up, a babble of noise went up as they turned their long, pointed heads towards him and showed their short white fangs. Chekov climbed awkwardly and self-consciously to his feet. Golland had put him in a red Starfleet shirt that was several sizes too big. He realised that the message was still clear. Golland was showing off his prize to anyone who would take note. As a mercenary, he was advertising his services.

With a great deal of shouting and a rain of blows, Chekov was pushed through the crowd at phaser point and on through the station. As they progressed, they were stopped by a group of Centaurian monks. They blocked their path and looked at Chekov with a greedy curiosity.

"How much for the Starfleet soldier?" asked their leader. Chekov averted his gaze from the pair of glowing yellow eyes that could be seen from under the cowl. The monks were a renegade order who were fighting to gain control of a system in Federation space that included a planet they held sacred. They were always looking for hostages to barter with Starfleet.

"He's not for sale," replied Golland tersely, making to push past the group. The monk put out his bony hand and grasped Golland by the upper arm. A flash of a dagger glinted at his waist.

"You're advertising. So how much?"

"See me at noon outside the Orion market," said Golland sensing the danger. "I'll soon be able to get you whatever you want. This is my gold mine. He's not for sale."

The answer seemed to pacify the monks and they moved on.

Eventually the group moved out of the main promenades of the station and into quiet white corridors. They ascended several flights in a turbolift and emerged into a small hallway with a single unassuming door. A sign hung on it in a script Chekov had never seen before. Golland sounded the door chime. After a few seconds the door slid open to reveal and tall alien with dark green lumpy looking skin and lizard-like yellow eyes. He raised his hand with its long thin fingers and sharply pointed nails. Chekov saw the tip of a long scaly tailed whip momentarily behind one of his shoulders.

"I've been expecting you," the alien rasped.

Chekov took in his dark red shift and took a step back. It was the colour of human blood. He came up sharply against Haddad's phaser. The Tikari put his hand on his shoulder and pushed him forwards with a growl.

"Are you Dr Krashal?" asked Golland.

The alien nodded. "Is this the patient?" he asked, looking Chekov up and down. He put out a brown claw and dragged it delicately across Chekov's forehead as if assessing his skull. "He's Terran?"

"He's from Earth," confirmed Golland.

"Then come in." Dr Krashal indicated with a sweep of his arm for the group to enter. Golland indicated to Parekei to remain outside.

As Chekov passed, the alien put his hand on his chest, sucking in a gasp of air and closing his eyes in concentration. With a shimmer, he turned into a human male. Chekov lurched away from him in surprise. He was an Antosian, he realised. A natural born shape-shifter who could heal himself. The man folded his arms and looked at him with a reptilian calm as Haddad pushed him through the door. What greeted him in the room did not surprise him. Several months previously the _Enterprise_ had been sent to Elba II Rehab colony with a shipment of medicines to cure a range of neurological disorders. The Captain and Mr Spock had been taken captive by the former Starfleet captain, Garth of Izar, left deranged and homicidal after an attempted treatment by the Antosians. After the Captain had returned to the ship, the Bridge Crew were taken through the logs as a lessons-learned exercise. The thing that had lodged most sharply in Chekov's mind had been the hospital's rehabilitation chair. Dr McCoy had given them a run-down on it. Based on an Antosian design which had created the shape-shifting abilities that they had tried to use to cure Captain Garth, when used on a psychotic individual, it could repair the frontal lobes and restore the patient to his former balanced self. When used on a healthy individual, however, it could be programmed to break down the neural connections within the brain and, with the right dose of chemicals, be used to re-programme whatever personality type was required. The process was slow and caused excruciating pain. The Captain had been subject to it. One of the side-effects was ever-increasing homicidal tendencies.

"Bind him to the chair. I just need to finish the chemical mix and then we can begin," directed Krashal, turning to a row of bottles on a small silver table next to the chair. He turned back momentarily. "Wrists up. I'll need to inject in both."

"No." Chekov's protest went unheeded. Krashal brought over two monitors and set them up on either side of the chair.

"You're in no position to tell us what we can and can't do," said Krashal, not bothering to look up from his work. "Your Federation destroyed my entire planet. Don't think for one moment that I'll have any sympathy for you, human."

"I know of your people. You can't blame Captain Garth for the mistakes they made," tried Chekov desperately. It was the only way he could think of staving off the inevitable. "I know the Antosians tried to help him. They were good people. But the cure didn't work. It only made him mad. No one could have foreseen that."

Krashal flicked a switch on the monitor. It hummed into life. "And how do you know so much about my people's murderer?" he asked disinterestedly.

"We were sent to Elba II Rehabilitation Colony with a final cure. Garth tried to kill my captain. He wanted to kill us all. You can't blame the entire Federation for the acts of man who was not in his right mind."

Krashal looked up, his appearance flickering between his reptile self and human. "My people are all dead. They do not have the liberty of blame. As a gift to Captain Golland to fight against the Federation, you, as their representative, will make a fitting sacrifice. Save your breath. You'll need it. Humans tend to do a lot of screaming during the treatment."

Chekov struggled as Haddad and Golland grasped him firmly by the wrists and dragged him over to the chair. He tried to raise his arms to twist free but the men pulled them back down and behind his back. They pushed him into the chair, slamming the metal cuffs around his wrists. They were so tight he couldn't move them. He curled his fingers into fists and tried to pull against the bands but he was held fast. Krashal moved back to the chair, pushing the small silver table in front of him. He took two hyposprays and fixed them into the bands against the skin of Chekov's wrists. With a push of the buttons on each end the liquid inside began to diffuse slowly into his skin. A feeling of stomach-wrenching nausea began to spread through him. With a helpless deep groan he shut his eyes. He felt his head loll back against the head rest of the chair. He wanted to be sick but there was nothing in his stomach to bring up. As his head touched the back of the chair the lights of the three discs that surrounded his head lit up. A low humming noise filled the room as the machine began its work. A searing pain ripped through his head. He tried to fling himself forwards to escape the machine's influence but some intangible force pushed him back. He arched his back with a scream of pain, his sensory world collapsing in on itself.

Malla did her best to hide the horror she felt as she looked on. He father showed no emotion and Haddad seemed to be getting a perverse pleasure out of the scene. Krashal began to monitor one of the displays next to the chair and nodded in satisfaction. Malla was disgusted with them all and with herself for letting the scene continue. One part of her wanted to run from the room, as far away as possible, and yet another part realised that she could end it. She had to act quickly.

"What is the course of treatment?" Malla asked, steadying her breathing and pretending to be interested in trying to understand the data flashing across the screen.

"The first round of treatment will last for approximately 30 minutes," said Krashal, adjusting one of the hyposprays. "Then the patient must rest for 10 minutes before the next round. This is repeated three times. With each round the neurons are progressively detached from each other. After this we can them begin to reform the connections to the plan stored in the computer here." He patted a grey faceless box.

"But each individual's brain is unique. How can you know how to put back together something which you took apart inaccurately in the first place?"

"We can't, of course. That is why the patient experiences the unfortunate side-effects… pain, psychosis…"

"Is the treatment reversible?"

"Yes."

"At what stage?"

"Only after the first stage."

Golland stepped forward. "Malla, stop asking questions. Dr Krashal has work to do."

Malla stepped back and shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. "Just curious," she said.

As the doctor had indicated, the treatment continued for another twenty minutes. By the end, Chekov had lost the energy to scream. Every so often he emitted a groan, his eyes screwed shut against whatever horrors were going on inside his body and mind. As Krashal powered down the machine, he put his head back taking long gasping breaths. Krashal pushed open one of his eyelids with his thumb. Chekov barely seemed aware of where he was. Krashal lifted his head up by the hair and patted him vigorously on the cheek, eventually slapping him into full consciousness when he did not respond quickly enough. Chekov's head swam. He tried to focus on the room. He saw Malla looking tense behind her father. He watched as Krashal moved to start up the machine.

"Please, not again." He pleaded weakly.

Krashal ignored him. He checked the monitors again and, seeming satisfied with the results, started up the machine. Chekov let out of cry of pain, twisting his whole body in the chair. Krashal turned to Golland, shimmering into his reptile form. "Well Captain, the treatment is working as planned. I think it's time we discussed payment."

"Of course," replied Golland. "I'm ready when you are."

"Come with me. We can finalise the terms and you can make the transfer through here." Krashal indicated to a back room.

Malla saw her chance. "I'll stay here, Father. I want to see how the treatment progresses." She noticed Haddad looking at her suspiciously. "I'm interested medically," she continued. "And besides, I want the satisfaction of watching Starfleet pay for what they did to my Mother. I'd like to review the data. We may need Dr Krashal's services again sometime."

Golland nodded. "Of course. You're my good girl. We'll just be in here."

Golland, Haddad and Krashal disappeared through a door and into a back room. As soon as the door had clicked shut behind them she carefully moved to open the door to the main corridor. As she expected, Parekei had left his post – gone to sample the lurid delights of the space station, no doubt.

Back in the room Chekov continued to suffer. His over-stimulated senses had reduced his screams to ragged shallow gasps. Malla ran back to the machine and hit the button to power it down. Chekov slumped forwards awkwardly, held up by the clamps around his wrists. As she released the shackles she caught him as he fell forwards. He held on to her, almost passing out with the pain. She pulled him to his feet, relieved that he seemed to gain some sense of balance. Chekov looked about him in a daze. Beyond the searing headache he could only feel confusion. He wasn't sure where he was any more. He was dimly aware that Malla was helping him but he wasn't sure if she was real or not. He felt he had to trust her.

Malla pulled him out of the room and into the hallway, thumping the control panel for the turbolift. It arrived swiftly and she pushed Chekov ahead of her and commanded the lift to take them back to the Landing Bays. Chekov sank down onto his knees, sliding down the wall. She let him sit there a while before coaxing him to raise his arms a little so she could take off the red overshirt. He obeyed in silence, grimacing at the small amount of effort. She pulled him back to his feet as the the door opened into the long white corridors that led onto the noisy central plaza. She dragged him back they way they had come and out into the plaza, moving along the edge of the wall. The crowd was such that no one gave them much notice. She passed a chair with a long cloak thrown over it. She grabbed it and hurried on, pulling it over her shoulders and folding the cowl over her head. She saw the entrance to their Landing Bay and picked up her speed. Chekov walked unsteadily beside her, half walking, half staggering to keep up, pulling at her arm as bouts of dizziness overtook him.

"Where is my daughter?"

Malla heard her father's roar above the hubbub of the plaza. She looked anxiously over her shoulder and pulled the hood of the cloak further over her head. He had realised their absence sooner than she had hoped. She pulled Chekov along behind her with renewed urgency.

"Hurry!" she said insistently. "We don't have long."

Chekov frowned at her as if he were peering through a fog. He staggered forwards and let her push the crowds out of the way for him. Some of the aliens turned in annoyance and began shouting at the couple. Malla tried to placate them with hissed apologies but the ripple in the crowd was enough to alert Golland and Haddad to their location.

"Where is my daughter?" yelled Golland again.

Finally Malla spotted their shuttle. She pushed Chekov to the door and keyed in the code with her shaking fingers. Chekov leant back against the shuttle wall. He could feel himself slipping towards unconsciousness. It was taking him all of his effort to stay awake. As he gazed about him he saw Golland and Haddad moving into the Bay's entrance. Haddad had his phase pistol raised. Chekov turned his head to watch Malla open the door and move in front of him to pull him forwards. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the streak of phaser fire. Amidst the screams and the panic in the Bay he suddenly felt Malla grab hold of him by both arms. She pinned him tightly to her and rested her head on his shoulder. He was momentarily confused. Her grip on him intensified. The she looked up at him directly, her beautiful blue eyes opening wide in alarm.

"Go," she whispered weakly.

He felt her start to fall. He tried to grab her and hold her up but his arms felt numb and clumsy. He knelt down next to her, unsure if she was dead or alive. He became aware of more phaser fire ricocheting off the shuttle wall around his head and he threw himself away from her and into the small craft's hatch. He hit the controls as quickly as he could to shut the door and dead-lock behind him it for flight. With the sound of hammering and increased phaser fire in his ears, he flung himself down at the helm and fired up the shuttle for an emergency take-off. He always considered himself to be a poor pilot, but he had learned enough from Sulu to know how to operate the controls in an emergency. He lifted the craft off the deck and manoeuvred it clumsily towards the outer doors, clearing them and narrowly missing and incoming vessel. As soon as he had hit the space outside he slammed the controls into warp, ploughing all his effort into concentrating enough to lay in the course to the Space Station he had identified and to set the Starfleet distress signal. Closing his eyes to the swirling gas clouds that shrouded the station, he sank down across the console, folding his arms beneath his throbbing head. Blessed oblivion overtook him.


	7. Chapter 7

Captain's Log stardate 2152.75. Ensign Chekov has been returned to us from Space Station Merrick. He was found by Station security scouts three days ago in a Tikari shuttle broadcasting a Starfleet distress signal. In addition to the dehydration reported by the Station medical team, Dr McCoy has found that he has undergone some preliminary neurological surgery akin to that used by the Antosians and on Ebla II. Having no small amount of experience in this area, the doctor is administering corrective treatment and expects Mr Chekov to make a full recovery by the end of the week. Mr Spock has already prepared some tasks for him to work on when he returns to work to help make his transition back to his post as 'uneventful' as possible. He has had a stream of visitors in Sickbay and seems his normal talkative self. I was able to talk to him this morning and found him in remarkably good spirits despite his ordeal. Regarding his time as a prisoner he has told me as much as he can. It seems he was not treated well and has explained the disapearance of the shuttle from the USS Dirac. He blames himself for the death of the three crewmembers. I wanted to offer him some words of consolation, but there are certain situations we find ourselves in that cannot have... acceptable resolutions. He also mentioned a girl, but on this he has been more reticent. It seems she may have died trying to save him. He seems uncertain about her fate.

On a more positive note, I have been able to pass on to Starfleet the location of an illegal trading and arms smuggling station as well as a multitude of information regarding vessels and individuals that we have been able to extract from the database of the shuttle he was found in. Hopefully the Federation will add these details to the information they already have on this sector and achieve some progress on Tikar. I have sent my thanks to Admiral Kosik for allowing us to remain in the Tikari system and have asked him to pass on the news to Chekov's parents back on Earth.

We will now be proceeding to Gerontius to explore the uncharted systems bordering the Neutral Zone there. It will be good to have our Chief Navigator back on the Bridge. As with all members of my crew, he is a vital part of what makes the Enterprise work.

End Log.


End file.
